


living a life I can't leave behind

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-20 23:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14271765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: After the Incident, Jamie gets banned from Sky and the Telegraph until the end of the season, which means a lot of time at home and in the gym. At least until Stevie calls him one day, offering him a job."Come coach the kids with me, J."So Jamie does.





	living a life I can't leave behind

The Incident is… bad. Jamie regrets it as soon as he’s done it, looks at the girl sitting in the back seat and remembers his daughter and feels himself heating up with shame. The man had to have had a camera. Men like that always did.

He goes home and sits Nic and the kids down and confesses immediately. They need to be prepared. Especially James, god only knew what the boys at training would have to say. He worries less about Mia—she has that fire in her, and he knows she’ll defend him and not let on at all if the things her classmates say hurt her. But it makes him ache, that she’ll hurt at all, and he aches that it’s all because of him. Nicola is kind. She doesn’t say much, probably because she knows it won’t matter, and when the kids have gone off to bed, she makes him a cup of tea while he calls his agent to prepare him for what’s to come. She sits next to him and lets him lay her head in her lap for awhile once he’s done, both of them just laying still and quiet for a few minutes.

It’s when he’s leaving to go to his bedroom for the night that she wraps him into a hug.

“I’ve known you since we were six, James, and I know what kind of man you are,” she says quietly, “it was just a mistake. That’s not who you are, love, not inside. I forgive you and the kids forgive you, and that’s what matters, okay?”

He nods because he can’t speak, not when he knows his voice won’t be steady. He holds her close for a moment before pressing a kiss to her cheek, and slips into his bedroom, hearing her familiar movements through the walls of the next room. It had been the right thing to do, to call time on the romantic part of their relationship, and this—this platonic soulmate who is the mother of his children, she’s one of the greatest blessings he’s ever had in his life, and he will always, always love her for it, even if not in the way he’d thought he loved her once.

The news breaks fast, faster than he can react to it. He gets a text from Stevie the next morning, a few minutes after he wakes up. It’s short, and not particularly sentimental, but the four words still help. He calls him, and they talk, and Stevie doesn’t comment on the sleepy roughness of his voice, or how disappointed he is. He just talks about the kids, about little Lio and how happy he is, how the girls love his chubby little cheeks and how Lourdes is reveling in playing with him. His son is always ready to laugh, he boasts proudly, and Jamie flashes back to when James was that young, all dark hair and bright eyes and the famous Carragher dimples, evident right from the first smile.

Stevie ends the call with the same words he’d used in the text message.

_It’s gonna be okay._

Jamie half-believes him, even if it’s hard. He’s had worse—he’s had drunken sex with strippers at a fucking Christmas party, after all, this isn’t nearly as bad as that, right?

But the fallout is bad, worse than he had predicted even. He calls the man and apologizes for doing it. He talks to the girl, who he finds more annoyed at her own father than she is at him. She forgives him and steps into the next room away from her father and apologizes on his behalf, too.

  
What he’s most surprised at, though, is work. He’d expected—well, he hadn’t known quite what he’d expected, really. He knew that Liverpool stood by their players, and what he had done was terrible, of course, but no worse than things that players had done in times gone by, surely?

But Sky _milks_ it. He feels exploited, almost. It’s like a public whipping, the way he’s trotted out to all the different networks and made to relive everything and apologize a thousand times, as if somehow there are magic words that would make it all go away and each apology is a desperate fumble to find them.

He never does.

Gary stands by him, which is some comfort, if not much. Sky bans him for the rest of the season, and frankly, that’s more of a relief than anything. He’d rather have that than being flogged live on air every Monday, anyway. He chooses to stop writing for the _Telegraph_ for the rest of the season, too, figuring that it’ll just be easier that way. He’s bad for business right now, and he will be for the next few months, until someone is found beating their wife or drunk driving or being racially abusive.

He stops going on Twitter. He hadn’t realized before, how much of a habit it was, laying in bed and scrolling when he wakes up, messaging friends or teasing colleagues. But at some point, it had become a habit, and it’s one that he finds hard to break. But he manages, somehow, finds himself opening twitter a lot and then closing it a few seconds later when he realizes he can’t stand it anymore. He gives up watching the Prem, for a bit. He can’t quite stop himself from watching football, so he watches La Liga and the Bundesliga instead, even MLS now and again, feeling a twist in his gut when he watches the white-clad LA Galaxy running out onto the pitch for the first game of the season.

He starts watching the Academy matches, after awhile. He can’t bring himself to go to James’ matches anymore, not when he knows what that would bring him, the jeers and the whispers and the way it would affect his son’s heart and his football.

Stevie’s there. They show him on the sideline, shouting at his players and urging them on, and something stirs in Jamie then, a thousand memories of that same voice shouting at him.

He finds himself watching the Champions League on BT first, and then whatever Premier League matches they have. They don’t mention him, because giving free publicity to a rival broadcaster is hardly a smart economic decision. It’s very comforting, to hear the steadiness in the voices he knows so well, from hours on the pitch playing with and against each other. Stevie’s accent in particular is soothing and familiar, and he finds himself wondering at the lines on his face, the coif of his hair, so different from the boy he remembers from years ago, all long, scrawny limbs and hair buzzed short, no fuss.

Sky announce his ban, and it’s lauded from all sides as the right thing to do. Jamie’s glad about it anyway, it’ll be good for him to get some time away, and by the time the next season rolls around, he’ll be old news anyway, and the people will miss his banter with Gary more than they’ll hate him for spitting at a Manc.

He dreams that night, the night Sky announce his ban. He dreams of a gorgeous green pitch, every blade of grass perfectly in place, just a hint of wind in the air, enough that the air doesn’t feel stifling. The ground is supposed to be loud, with all the people in the stands shouting, but this is a dream, and so it’s quiet. It’s just quiet, with the low hum of fans urging him on when he sees the other men in red shirts with familiar faces, ridiculous haircuts and bright-colored boots and tattoos covering their skin as they pass the ball to him and take it back.

Stevie’s there, too. He knows it’s Stevie, even though the dream isn’t quite right about everyone. He sees Skrtel’s tattoos on Luis Garcia’s body with his hair slicked back with sweat, sees Pepe Reina with Fernando Torres’ blond locks for a moment and forgives the ridiculousness of it. But Stevie is just the same as he is, the familiar face and the hair he had had at the end of Jamie’s Liverpool career, the short back and sides and a bit longer on top.

They’re just playing, and somehow Jamie feels free, in a way he hasn’t felt since he was a kid. It’s all joy and no stress, somehow. He’s not afraid, for once. He’s not afraid he’ll lose, and he’s not afraid he’ll disappoint his teammates or his parents or his neighborhood or his coaches. He just knows that they’ll be okay, that _he_ will be okay. The sun is bright and Stevie scores a goal the way he always does, a screamer from thirty yards out and Jamie passed him the ball before he took the shot, so he wonders idly if he’ll get an official assist for it in the seconds before Stevie leaps into his arms, hugging him tight.

He wakes feeling warm, as if the golden sun is still warming his skin. He misses it, all of a sudden. He misses football. He always misses football, if he’s honest, but usually it’s quiet. Usually it stays in the back of his mind, a soft, constant refrain that he counters by reminding himself to be grateful for the career he’s had and for the career he has now. But the ache spikes sometimes, after dreams like this, dreams of being on the pitch, and the clusterfuck that is his professional life hasn’t helped either. He’s almost sick with it now, with the desire to go back, to live it again.

He sighs and gets up, going downstairs to have breakfast before dropping the kids off at school.

His phone buzzes while he’s driving, but he leaves it, letting the call go unanswered, mostly because he doesn’t have the emotional energy for a conversation with someone at the minute. He says goodbye to the kids and watches them head off—he drives them to school today instead of walking them, and nobody says anything, but they all know why.

He goes back home and lays on the sofa aimlessly, trying to keep his mind busy and half-considering spending the day in the gym—he could go running, but running was outside, and outside was where people were, after all. That’s when he remembers the missed call and checks his phone to see it’s from Stevie.

He calls him back, glad for the ability to get out of his own head for a few minutes.

They talk for a few minutes, Stevie mentioning idly that one of his coaches has gotten an offer from MK Dons and is considering it pretty seriously, and Jamie hums in sympathy.

“So what are you going to do?” He asks, trying to show interest.

Stevie goes silent, for long enough that Jamie checks to make sure the call hasn’t disconnected.

“Steve?”

“Come work with me.” Stevie’s voice has a forced lightness to it, as if he’d weighed how he would ask a million times in his head, as if he’d tried dozens of combinations of words in the mirror and wanted it to be as casual as he could make it.

“I’ve been banned, Steven, but I still have a job—“

“Do you really like it?” Stevie asks quietly, “I’ve seen you, J. I’ve watched your shows, and you’re good at it. You’re a good pundit. But maybe it’s time to get back out onto the pitch, mate. Maybe it’s time to be out there, in the snow and the wind and the rain, and not in the cozy studio with makeup on.”

It’s Jamie’s turn to go quiet, and he breathes out slowly, letting himself visualize it, the beautiful bright green of the pitch—

“You don’t have to answer right now. Think about it for a few days, J. Think about it. It doesn’t have to be forever. You can even do it on a trial basis, if you want, through the end of the season. I know you’ve got contracts in other places, I know you aren’t the sort to walk away from a commitment. But it’s just something to do, if you want.”

It’s sounding more and more appealing by the minute, but Jamie’s not sure if that’s because it’s something to get him out of the house, or because he’s bored out of his mind with nothing to do with his life, or because Stevie just makes it sound good.

“I’ll think about it,” he says carefully, “I’ll have to talk to Nic and the kids, and I’ll let you know.”

Stevie nods. “Talk soon, then.” There’s a click, and the silence that the phone call had broken returns, more stifling than before.

Jamie sits down and thinks about it. He thinks about it until his stomach grumbles and then he clicks on the television while he’s eating, and then after that, he starts on some errands, trying not to let the thought of it consume him. He has a family, he reminds himself again and again. It’s not just about him or what will make him happy. He’s already put them through enough.

He waits for Nic to come home, and waits for dinner, for the kids to go up to bed.

“Can we talk for a second?” he asks quietly, sitting down with her and telling her everything.

She looks at him for a moment, and smiles.

“You’ve already decided, James,” Nicola says softly. She gets up and kisses his forehead before she walks away.

Jamie sighs, but he knows it’s true. He heads upstairs and goes to bed.

He broaches the idea with the kids over breakfast the next day, and they seem to be okay with it, more or less. There won’t be nearly as many headlines, they’re probably thinking. No more articles detailing how he said something about some player or how some player said something about him. Not for a few months, at least.

He waits one more day, just in case. He wonders if the players will even accept him. He has a bit of a reputation, he knows that. He wouldn’t exactly be the softest, cuddliest teddy bear of a coach, certainly. The kids might not like him. Their parents might not want him to be the model of behavior for their sons, either. Having a man with a scandal like this as a coach was hardly the best influence for a young man, after all, even if he’d been good for the most part.

He tosses and turns at night, and finally, he decides. It’s easy enough to hedge his bets. Stevie had offered him that, probably because he knew Jamie would be scared. A three month trial period, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

Stevie picks up the phone on the second ring, mumbling baby talk in a singsong voice to Lio, who’s clearly not pleased, if the crying is anything to go off of.

“Hello?” he sounds distracted, as if he doesn’t even know who’s calling.

“I’ll take the job,” Jamie blurts out, “trial basis, let me just see how it plays out, if I’m even any good at it, if it works well. But I’ll take it. Just to the end of the season.”

“Yes! That’s brilliant! You hear that, little man? Uncle Jamie’s gonna come work with me!” Jamie hears the smacking noise of a kiss pressed against a soft baby cheek and smiles.

“Okay, you sap, I’ll let you go now. Give Lio a kiss from me.”

He’d expected to be anxious after the conversation. Nervous, if anything. Scared, maybe. He’d imagined his heart would be racing, wondering if he’d made the right decision. But it’s just plodding along steadily in his chest, and if anything, it feels like a weight’s been lifted off his shoulders.

The endless sentence of boredom’s been lifted all of a sudden. He instantly starts drawing up a list of things to do in his mind. He can learn about the players, he can examine their strengths and weaknesses, he can draw up tactical plans and talk to Stevie about his visions for the team. He can scout the best players, the ones who are most likely to rise and make it, the ones that need to be shouted at and the ones who need an arm round the shoulder and a bit of affection.

He wonders if he should study the lads beforehand or go in without any preconceived notions about any of them. That might be best, actually, to have a fresh pair of eyes for the first few days and then to go back and talk them over with Stevie, share his impressions.

He smiles a bit at himself. Five minutes ago, he’d been unsure about even taking the job, and now he’s throwing himself in headfirst. He wonders if this is how Gary felt about Valencia, and for the first time, he thinks he might be able to understand why he’d left.

They decide that he’ll start tomorrow. _There’s no point in waiting_ , Stevie had said. Jamie privately disagreed, thought that waiting a bit for the dust to settle might be a bit better, but Stevie’s his boss now, after all.

“Hang on, do you have permission to hire me? Don’t you have to ask higher-ups or something?”

Stevie just laughs. “Better to ask forgiveness than permission, Jamie. You’re the one who taught me that.”

Jamie wonders if maybe he is a bad influence after all.   
\---

He wakes early on the first day of his new job. Laughably early, actually. Horrendously early. The sun is barely starting to rise. But Jamie’s wide awake and not going to fall asleep again anytime soon, so he gets up and gets dressed and goes out for a run. It’s the first run he’s been on since the incident, he notes as his legs start to warm up and he falls into a nice rhythm.

He hadn’t wanted the stares, the shouts or the requests for a photo or an autograph. He hadn’t even wanted to be seen, really. He’d just wanted to be invisible for a little while. But he doesn’t mind anymore. He’s got to face it eventually, and this is a good way to ease into it. There aren’t many people in the streets this early, and not that many cars, either, so it’s quiet and still. It’s mostly dark, light just starting to filter through the branches of the trees.

He runs without music, letting himself be alone with his own thoughts, for once unafraid of where they might take him. He considers old memories, from his childhood and his footballing career and Istanbul and Sky Sports and writing for the _Telegraph_ late into the night, after the kids and Nic were already asleep, crafting each word lovingly and carefully.

His thoughts drift, feet on autopilot on the familiar streets, trusting that wherever he ends up, he’ll be able to find his way back home. He starts daydreaming about being a coach, about rising through the ranks at Stevie’s side, about co-managing the first team someday and leading them to victory, winning the trophies they’d never gotten to win as players.

He pulls himself back to reality at that—it’s too much. It’s too much to even dream of, it’s not something he lets himself imagine, even. It’s too sacred for that, too profound a desire for him to allow himself to visualize, to wonder at how he would feel if indeed it ever happened.

He turns around at some point, realizing how much his legs are aching. He goes back home and hops into the shower. He gets dressed and goes to the academy training center.

He’s the first one there, and the security guard lets him in, more because he’s visited with the academy lads before than because he’s authorized to. Jamie smiles at him and parks and walks out. The air is fresh, cold and invigorating in his lungs. He whistles idly and starts thinking about what drills to run, finding the cones and setting them out, careful to align them with the lines in the way he likes.   
\---

That’s where he is, when Stevie arrives at the training ground. Jamie’s still arranging the cones, looking calm and almost blissfully peaceful, with the sun on his face.

Stevie wants to say hello, but doesn’t want to disturb his reverie, either, so he walks up quietly, pressing a hand to Jamie’s shoulder.

“Come on, let me get you into your official uniform. They finished monogramming it yesterday afternoon, it’s up in my office.”

Jamie nods. “They did it in one day?” he asks idly.

Stevie flushes just slightly. “Not really. I had the order made up the morning I called and talked to you. Figured if you didn’t take the job, that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, but if you did—I just wanted to have it ready for you.”

Jamie smiles at him and wraps an affectionate arm around him. “Thank you, Steve.”

Stevie doesn’t quite know how to respond. The words are simple and sincere, none of the usual teasing or sarcasm. He just leans into his former teammate’s warmth, letting his eyes close for a moment before they pull apart and he leads the way up to his office.

“Here—“ He hands Jamie a packet, more than a little surprised when Jamie unzips his track jacket and starts pulling off his t-shirt. Of course there’s no shyness between them—how could there be? They’ve seen every inch of each other thousands of times, between training and matches and shared hotel rooms. But something throws him for a loop this time. Maybe it’s the context—they’re in his office, not in the dressing room or a hotel room. Maybe it’s the surprise of it all. Or maybe it’s the amount of time it’s been since the last time he’s seen Jamie’s body. His stomach is still flat, but the lines of his muscles have softened, and he’s got more gray in his hair than he had before.

But other things are still the same—the pale flesh of his thighs, the breadth of his shoulders, the scars on his stomach and the smaller ones in other places, from surgeries or injuries or accidents.

“Am I still pretty?” Jamie teases, catching him looking.

“Beautiful as always, Carra,” Stevie shoots back dryly, even if it’s true. He smiles, ruining the act. “The crest suits you.”

Jamie grins back at him. “I’ve missed it,” he admits softly, running his fingers over the liverbird on his chest. “I liked the embroidered ones best,” he says absently, “they always seemed more permanent. Sturdier.”

They talk for a little while. When Stevie starts listing off players and their strengths and weaknesses, Jamie stops him, telling him he’d rather come to his own conclusions after a few days of training. So they focus instead on the training drills they’ll do, what tactics Stevie wants to play with, the style he envisions his team having.

At some point, there’s a perfunctory knock on the door and another coach walks in, freezing when he takes in the sight of Jamie there with Stevie.

“Sorry—I didn’t know you two were having a meeting,” he says awkwardly, but Stevie waves away the apology and introduces him to Jamie.

They head down to the dressing room, where the lads are getting changed, and Stevie introduces Jamie to each of the boys. Jamie’s nervous, somehow. It’s not a familiar emotion, but he wants these kids to like him. He wants them to respect him and take his direction, but he wants them to like him, too.

They’re respectful, but some of them hang back, and Jamie can see they’re reserving their judgment until they’ve had a few days of training together. He can understand why, too—he’d had quite the reputation of being a shouter on the pitch, and he would probably be the same on the sideline, in all honesty.

But he has a son, too, and looking at the young faces standing in front of him fills him with an instinctive fondness that he would never have felt for adults. He smiles and makes casual conversation with a few of the kids, learns about their families, asks if they have anything in particular they’d like to work on or have him focus his attention on.

They head outside not too long after, the kids running drills and stretching before they start with ballwork. It’s nice, actually. He draws his own conclusions when he sees the lads playing five a side, and then again when they play a full eleven to eleven.

He notices Stevie, too. He’s completely and utterly comfortable in this setting. He calls out each of the kids and makes sure he weights his teams evenly, so the kids who haven’t quite had their growth spurts are teammates with the lads growing like beanstalks, so that the technically clever players are interspersed with the solid, hard-tackling players that remind Jamie a little bit of himself at that age.

Stevie reprimands and praises, shouts advice and hugs the kids close when they do well, and it’s heartwarming. He knows which kids respond well to a shout and which need an arm around the shoulders. He takes one of the lads aside at the end and asks him how he’s doing, if his mum is doing okay, and they talk quietly for a few minutes before Stevie hugs him tight and gives him his cell phone number, telling him to call if he needs anything.

Jamie wants that, too. He wants to stay, all of a sudden, wants to help build something here, wants to nurture these kids the way he was nurtured when he was young. He’d been lucky, to have his family supporting him every step of the way, and he’d do everything he could to keep these lads on track. This was about football, yes, but it was also about much more than football. It was about making sure these kids did okay, whether that was in football or in a different career. It was about making sure they made good choices, making sure they kept their heads on straight, didn’t get inflated egos, and Stevie and the other coaching staff had done a great job in achieving that.

Stevie takes him back to his office after the kids have gone home and they talk about the kids then, how they’re preparing for their next game in a few days, what he wants from the team tactically and how they can achieve it.

“This job suits you,” Jamie says quietly, looking at how Stevie’s eyes light up talking about his players.

“Suits you too,” Stevie says instantly, “once you stopped being shy and actually coached them, you were brilliant at it.”

“I wasn’t being _shy_! I was just observing!”

“ _Shyly_ observing,” Stevie teases with a grin. He’d missed this, this easy back and forth with Jamie. It was so easy to get him riled up, but not really upset. It was like that nature documentary he’d watched when he was trying to put Lio to sleep the other day, the lion cubs play fighting with each other.

Jamie seems to be thinking along the same lines. “Remember that one time we ended up wrestling?” he asks.

Stevie definitely does. Jamie had been all over him and he’d been all over Jamie in turn, two skinny teenagers wrestling on the bed. He remembered Jamie’s warm weight on top of him, pinning him down until he admitted defeat.

“Wasn’t fair to pick on someone skinnier and littler than you!” he protests weakly, face flushing at the memory of Jamie’s face so close to his as he laid in bed.

Jamie grinned. “Had to put you in your place, though, didn’t I?”

“Do you remember the next day? Redders thought we’d been—thought we’d been—“

“Making love?” Jamie suggests with an impish grin, “your face went beetroot red, it was adorable.”

Stevie covers his cheeks with his hands. “Not so adorable now that I’m thirty-seven years old,” he mutters.

Jamie looks at him then, takes in the sight of him for a moment. “No,” he says thoughtfully, “still pretty adorable now, Steve.”

He grins and Stevie stammers out some sort of half-baked reply and they put on their coats and head out. Jamie pulls him into a hug before they walk to their separate cars and head home.

“Thanks for giving me this, Stevie. I didn’t know how much I needed something until I actually got it. Would’ve gone mad staying at home much longer.”

“No problem,” Stevie says dismissively, “it was selfish, anyway. I want to have the best on my staff.”

Jamie beams at him. “See you tomorrow, then, boss!” He heads off towards his car, leaving Stevie to examine his feelings over being called boss as he gets into his own car before driving home.

The kids warm up to Jamie fast, due in no small part to his willingness to laugh at himself. He can do something no other coach they’ve had can, which is make Stevie blush when he drops hints of an embarrassing story from the past. But no matter how they beg, Jamie pretends not to understand when they ask for the full story, or just winks and makes something up, so grand and unbelievable that coming up with the best story becomes a game in itself.

He’s demanding, to be sure, he wants the best out of his players, but he gives praise as easily as he gives criticism, and he’s kind and funny and smart and gentle with the kids who are a little more sensitive.

Sometimes he and Stevie participate in drills, too, each picking a team of lads, and then Jamie’s a bit shoutier, the competitiveness coming out, but he also picks up the lads that score and hugs them tight, whooping before pausing to tell the opposition defense what they did wrong.

Stevie smiles at him, amused, and tells his team something about sportsmanship that causes Jamie to roll his eyes. “Listen to him, boys, he is the boss, after all,” he’d always say afterwards.

Their defense grows stronger, more confident, and one of the lads Jamie picks out as more of a leader turns into a bit of a mini-Jamie, shouting at the other lads and organizing the rest of the back line. Stevie thinks it’s kind of adorable, actually, how little Tom sticks to Jamie’s side and is always looking up at him with puppy eyes, clearly trying to learn every damn thing he can from his hero.

He teases Jamie in private about his new shadow, and Jamie defends Tom stoutly, talking about what a good player he is. But they do both find it funny that his shouting is completely unencumbered by the fact that his voice is still breaking.

The team is doing well, too. They don’t clash—Jamie’s learned over the years how to let Stevie lead without having to make himself smaller. They work well together. Jamie is shoutier, Stevie is quieter, but they’re both kind, and they both strive for excellence, and the boys catch on to that attitude as much by watching as they do by listening.

They play well. Good attacking football with a solid defense that brings them right near the top of the league, battling it out with the City youth team. They’re doing well in the Champions League, too. Jamie spends almost every afternoon with Stevie pouring over match tape and talking things over with the other coaching staff and occasionally sneaking a clip into the Melwood analysis office during international breaks, just to get their advice.

\---

 

“How are you liking the coaching gig?” Nic asks him one night, when they’re both watching tv before bed.

“Love it,” Jamie says simply, “they’re good lads, the boys, and Stevie’s there, it’s almost like old times.”

It had been more a rhetorical question than anything, she could see how happy he was, but she’s pleased with the response nonetheless.

“Sky called today,” she says quietly, “they want to negotiate your next contract, James. This one ends at the end of this season. It’s already been six years.”

Jamie goes still. “I’ll call them back after the game on Saturday,” he says quietly.

Saturday comes and goes. The team wins, and they get ready to travel to Portugal to play in the Youth League. Nic doesn’t ask about Sky, and Jamie doesn’t volunteer any information.

He just tells Sky he’s focusing on what he’s doing now, and he’ll be available for talks at the end of the season. It’s half-true, but coaching a youth team isn’t so completely all-encompassing that he can’t sign a contract. He’s just buying himself time, but Sky agree. The relationship is strained enough that Sky would probably agree to anything. After the first week or so after the Incident, they’d had consistently lower ratings and a quarter million fewer viewers. Advertisers were starting to ask questions, Jamie was told by one of the producers. Corporations were starting to press to get him back, but they didn’t want to be the ones who brought him back, either. They wanted Sky to do it, wanted them to take the heat if it didn’t end up working out.

\---

 

He and Jamie are sitting in Stevie’s house, drinking beer and watching Lio crawl around on his playmat and amuse himself.

“They’re sweet when they’re so young,” Jamie says absently, “I got so lucky with James—hasn’t caused me much trouble since he got older. He’s my best mate. And Lio will be yours, one day.”

They talk about their kids for a little while, and at the end of the night, Jamie kisses little Lio’s head—he has hair, but it’s so fine and blonde that he still looks mostly bald, and he smiles at Stevie before he gets in his car and drives home.

\---

“How are things with Stevie?” Nic asks him one day.

It’s a strange way to ask about how the coaching gig is going, but Jamie answers anyway. “Work’s fine. Stevie’s great, he’s a brilliant coach, I’m learning a lot from him.”

Nic shakes her head and tries not to smile, telling him goodnight and heading up to bed.

\---

 

Stevie’s good-looking, Jamie notices at some point. He tries not to fixate on it, but there’s just something about the careful coif of his soft hair, something endearing about the lines around his mouth that deepen when he smiles.

Jamie pretends he doesn’t know that his best friend is handsome. He pretends even with himself, pretends that it’s something he’s just noticed, and not at all something that he’s known for years and just buried relentlessly in his mind. He’s a progressive man, he tells himself, and it’s perfectly acceptable for a man to understand when another man is attractive. It doesn’t mean he wants him.

The line gets a little harder to sell when one day he catches himself watching Stevie as he changes. It’s embarrassing, because even though Stevie doesn’t notice, one of the other coaches does, and he gives Jamie a _look_ , as if telling him to keep it in his pants. Which is ridiculous because Stevie is his best friend. He isn’t going to—hell, he doesn’t even _want_ to—

He dreams about Stevie two nights later, and the _he doesn’t even want to_ argument dies a swift death. But Jamie Carragher is a grown man and a professional, and he knows how to compartmentalize. He lets himself look at Stevie’s lips when they’re alone, lets himself think about him when he’s alone, in bed or in the shower, but when he’s on the clock, he polices his own thoughts relentlessly, so they’re nothing but work-related, and sometimes, friendship-related.

\---

 

  
It’s two and a half months in when he finally decides. He keeps quiet, though. He doesn’t want to be a distraction. He’ll tell Stevie his decision when the season’s over. Until then, he just needs to keep it to himself. He agonizes over it, spends an hour every night turning it over in his head, wondering if it’s the right thing to do, but in the morning, it seems to be the easiest decision in the world. Ironically, the only person he wants to talk it over with is Stevie—and Nic, but she already knows. She’s already known for a long time, and he knows he won’t lose her, no matter what he does. Stevie is different, though.

One night, they’re going over match footage on the sofa in Stevie’s office and Jamie makes a suggestion that seems obvious, but somehow Stevie hasn’t thought of it. He’s incredibly enthusiastic. Maybe it’s the late hours, maybe it’s the stress, maybe Stevie just loses his mind in that moment.

But he leans across the sofa and presses his lips against Jamie’s, quick and short and hard, a kiss that makes an audible smack on Jamie’s skin and they both freeze.

Jamie wants more. But it’s a mistake. It must be a mistake. So he pulls away, lets Stevie have some space to breathe.

But Stevie’s eyes shutter, and he looks like he’s in pain, almost.

“Did you—Stevie, did you mean to do that? Or was it just an accident? I get it, sometimes you get carried away—“

“Meant it,” Stevie says bluntly, “I wanted to kiss you, J. I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time.”

Jamie’s heart tries to flutter and soar, but the iron grip around it squeezes hard, and it stops resisting. “What about Alex, Steve?” he asks gently, “don’t ruin things with her just because of me.”

Stevie looks at him, the hurt starting to clear away and confusion taking its place. “Alex? Alex and I split up, J. I moved out. We split up when she was still pregnant with Lio—I think we both were staying for the kids for a little while before that, even. I see them every day, I still have a key and I go and make them breakfast, take the girls to school, watch them whenever Alex needs a break or wants to visit her mum or goes on a date—“

It’s too much, too fast. Jamie can’t quite process it, and all he can think is that he needs time. He holds up a hand. “You’re my boss,” he says quietly, “I’m not going to fuck my way to the top.”

Stevie goes scarlet—something about the crassness of it, as if _that’s_ why Stevie wants him, is absolutely infuriating.

“Then quit,” he says simply, “because I’ve wanted you for years, and I haven’t said anything, and if you don’t want me, that’s one thing, I can handle that, we can be friends and colleagues, that’s fine. But if you want me, and you can’t date me while we’re working together, then I’ll quit.”

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ ,” Jamie hisses, “this job is your life. You are not quitting it for me, that is _outrageous_ —“

“Do you want me?” Stevie asks simply.

Jamie flushes. “Yes,” he admits, “I just—give me some time to think, Steve. I need time—I don’t want to rush into this and lose you.”

Stevie feels the rush of hope and tries to stop it from showing on his face.

“Can we have a drink? After the season’s over, J, can we have a drink or something?”

Jamie pauses. “Dinner. I’ll buy you dinner, if that’s okay. To say thank you for letting me have this job. It’s been the best thing in my life these past few months, apart from the kids.”

Stevie half wants to kiss him again right that second, but he doesn’t want to scare him, so he just reaches out and takes his hand. Jamie has big, strong hands, the pads of his fingers callused. They’ve never held hands before, Stevie realizes, and he finds he wants to do it a lot more going forward.

  
\---

Things shift after that. They joke more at training, and there’s more of that affectionate touch, casually squeezing a shoulder or slinging an arm around each other.

One morning, they’re the only two there, setting up the cones for drills, and Stevie absently tells Jamie to do something.

“Whatever you want, boss.”

It’s not the first time Jamie’s called him that, and it is technically true, but he doesn’t normally say it with that teasing, husky voice. Stevie finds he likes it rather more than he should, and can almost immediately imagine how it’ll translate to other scenarios involving fewer clothes and rumpled sheets.

“You don’t have to call me boss like that,” Stevie says, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Sorry, boss, I’ll do better.”

“Correction: You _can’t_ call me boss like that,” Stevie says in a strangled voice.

“But you’re the boss! You’re _my_ boss,” Jamie’s got his most innocent voice on, and it’s about all Stevie can do to keep himself from tackling him to the ground and doing unspeakable things on the pitch.

He looks around quickly, and when he doesn’t see anyone anywhere near them, he pulls Jamie close and kisses him quickly. “You’re making me want to do things to you that would get us arrested if we did them out here.”

Jamie flushes, and it’s nice to make him feel the way he makes Stevie feel so much of the time. “Careful,” he says lightly, running his fingers over his lips, “if someone else saw that, they might think you were playing favorites, y’know. They might even think I only got this job because you like me.”

“Hush, J, you’re just as qualified as any of us,” Stevie says mildly.

“If you say so, _captain_ ,” Jamie teases, and when Stevie flicks his cheek, he takes it with a grin.

“Okay, you’re not allowed to call me that either,” Stevie mutters, feeling suddenly warm despite the cool spring air.

Jamie laughs, and Stevie thinks it might be the most beautiful sound he’s heard in a long time.  
\---

 

A few weeks later, their season is over, and they haven’t won any trophies, but Stevie isn’t devastated, and neither are the boys. At their age, trophies are a bonus, not the ultimate objective. The objective is Melwood, a few hundred feet away. The objective is a sold-out Anfield, someday, under the lights and in the snow and hearing the crowd chant your name.

On the one hand, Stevie’s disappointed, but on the other hand, he’s going on a date with Jamie soon, and he can’t be anything but excited about that.   
\---

 

Jamie comes to Stevie’s flat to pick him up. It’s his first date in over a decade, and he can’t help but feel old and out of practice. He feels stupid in his fancy clothes, too, even though it’s just a nice dress shirt and pants. He thinks back to his awkward teenage years, taking the bus to pick girls up and then walking to the restaurant—at least this is better than that.

He rings the bell, and Stevie answers just seconds later, as if he’d been waiting for him to get there. They say hello, and then Stevie says exactly what he’s been thinking, ever since he saw Jamie standing in his front doorway.

“Your butt looks good in those pants,” he blurts out as they walk down to the car.

Jamie laughs. “You don’t have to flatter me, Steve.”

“I’m serious. You have a fantastic ass, J. The spinning paid off.”

Stevie’s pretty shameless about how he’s eyeing Jamie up under the fitted pale blue shirt that sets off his eyes, neatly tucked into close fitting pants, and Jamie’s only slightly more subtle.

The restaurant is beautiful—dimly lit with candles on each table and spotless white tablecloths. The dinner is nice, too. The food is delicious and when the bread comes, Jamie shifts his foot under the long white tablecloth, until it’s nestled against Stevie’s, and he doesn’t move it, just lets it sit there. It’s been years since Stevie’s felt this—the way his body is absolutely on fire in the best possible way.

They tell each other stories they’ve already heard, stories about their youth, and somehow, they still find a way to make each other laugh, even after all these years and old stories. They tell new stories, too, stories about Sky and LA and coaching, and they flirt, all the way up to dessert. All in all, it’s going splendidly.

Stevie gets a bit of sauce on his lip and Jamie laughs and reaches over to wipe it away with his thumb, and Stevie closes his eyes, savoring the brief, wonderful touch, and feeling bold, he presses a kiss to Jamie’s fingertips.

“You eat like a child, Steven.” Jamie’s voice is unbearably fond.

Stevie shrugs and smiles at him. “I’ll take a few tomato sauce stains if it means you’ll touch me like that.”

They each get their own desserts, and when they come, they each split them in half and give half to the other person. Jamie gets the brownie à la mode and Stevie picks a lovely apple tart that also comes with ice cream

Stevie has the biggest grin on his face. “I am _so_ glad we’re retired, J.”

They eat and eat until they’re full, and Jamie pays the check and they drive back to Stevie’s house.

“Come in for a cup of tea?” Stevie asks, though he knows full well that Jamie doesn’t really drink tea, and caffeine this late at night would only give him more trouble sleeping than he already has.

But Jamie agrees, and parks, following him in. They make tea, though it’s decaf, and they sit in the living room sipping at it, top buttons of their shirts undone as they start to get comfortable. Jamie’s neatly pressed trousers are starting to wrinkle where he’s crossed his legs, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

He clears his throat suddenly, and looks up at Stevie. “Sky called me the other day to negotiate a new contract for the next five years,” he says quietly.

Stevie tenses, and Jamie notices right away—how could he not, when they’re shoulder to shoulder on the sofa?

“So you’re gong back then? Once this whole thing blows over, you’ll go back next season?” His voice isn’t accusatory, really, more just… resigned, as if he knew it wouldn’t last forever.

“I resigned. I want to stay, Steve, if you’ll have me.”

Stevie laughs wetly. “As if there’s any question of whether I’ll have you,” he mutters, carefully setting both their teacups on the coffee table.

Their second kiss is far different from the first. There’s not an ounce of hesitation, and Jamie kisses him back desperately, until Stevie feels fingers struggling with his shirt buttons, and realizes what’s going to happen. He settles himself into Jamie’s lap and starts kissing him again, feeling the way Jamie wants this just as much as he does, in the hands gripping his lower back, in the hardness that pushes against his stomach. His whole body’s on fire, all of a sudden, in a way it hasn’t been in years.

“You gonna take me to bed, Steve, or are you just gonna tease?” Jamie mumbles the words as he kisses Stevie’s neck, committing the scent of his cologne and the sounds that he makes to memory.

“I could tease,” Stevie mutters back, “but I need to take your clothes off, so we can tease next time.”

He can feel Jamie’s grin pressed against his skin, and it’s not long after that that they head upstairs, shirts half-buttoned and trousers wrinkles, leaving two mugs of tea to cool on the coffee table, completely forgotten.

Stevie’s bedroom is nicely decorated, and Jamie notices exactly none of it, because he’s being kissed to within an inch of his life and Stevie’s abandoned the cause of the shirt buttons to focus instead on getting Jamie out of his trousers, fingers fumbling with the button and zipper before he manages it.

It’s heady and exciting, to be in Stevie’s bed—almost as exciting as it is to have Stevie in his arms, to smell him, not just on his skin but on the sheets, the pillows—Jamie wonders if Stevie loves the smell of him half as much as he loves this.

“I’ve never—“ Jamie gasps, “never been with a man before.”

Stevie laughs shakily. “Me neither.”

Jamie leans over and kisses him again, and in his mind, he decides that tonight they’ll just learn how to touch each other. When he goes home, however, he plans on doing extensive research into how best to please a man.

“Here,” he mumbles, wrapping his fingers around Stevie and listening to the way he gasps, just at being touched. “Let’s just do this for tonight, love.”

Stevie’s eyes fall closed at the endearment, and he runs his fingers through Jamie’s hair, pulling him in close for a kiss before reaching to return the favor.

It’s a bit different from wanking himself off, he notes distantly. It’s backwards—his hand probably feels more like Jamie’s left, and there’s a wondrous excitement that comes from not knowing how Jamie will touch him next, from not knowing the exact rhythm or force or when or if Jamie will twist his wrist at the end.

And it’s different because he’s getting kissed, too. He’s being _loved_ , he realizes, with pet names and tender fingers and kisses to every part of his skin that Jamie can reach without disrupting their delicate balance. It’s awkward to maneuver his own arm around Jamie’s, to make sure that he pleases Jamie as well as letting himself relish Jamie’s touch.

His heart is pounding out of his chest and he pulls Jamie into a hard kiss when he feels himself about to come, needing that sign that _this_ is the person with him and that he cares, just like Stevie cares. Jamie obliges, though the kiss isn’t quite enough to stifle the quiet moan Stevie climaxes, barely discernible as Jamie's name.

Jamie has just wanked off his best friend. He doesn’t quite realize the enormity of it until he has Stevie’s semen on his hand and he somehow doesn’t find it repulsive. It’s just a sign that he’s good at making Stevie feel good, and he’s almost proud that he got him off. Stevie lays back afterwards, muscles relaxing and still lazily working away at Jamie until he finishes too. He hands them each a tissue and promptly rolls over and wraps an arm around Jamie before closing his eyes.

“Can’t believe you’re staying,” he whispers happily, “you’re staying. The kids will be so happy. Your little Tom would’ve been heartbroken if you left, you’re his hero.”

Jamie rolls his eyes. “He would’ve been just fine. He loves you just as much, Steve. I just—all those years in the studio, I guess I forgot how nice it was to be on the pitch again. Even if it’s on the sidelines shouting orders.”

“Shouting orders was always gonna be normal for you, you always were a loud one.”

“Depends on who I’m with and how good they are,” Jamie says with a lascivious smile that Stevie doesn’t see so much as he hears it. He huffs out a laugh and then it’s quiet as they hold each other and moments later, they’re asleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to @donnerhall-darling for the idea of this! And for reading the early drafts as well and offering feedback and encouragement, AND coming up with the title, taken from New Order's song Bizarre Love Triangle. I appreciate you so much!
> 
> Fun fact: Tom the imaginary kid has a bit of a crush on Jamie in my head. (because of course he does)


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